Pause and Wander

December 4–6, 2025

Places: Hanoi, Vietnam

We arrived in Vietnam with that familiar mix of excitement and mild disorientation that always seems to accompany a border crossing after a long stretch on the road. This stretch of our trip felt like a reset and a test at the same time. New country, new rhythms, extra family in tow, and the quiet question of how quickly we could find our footing together. Hanoi would be our proving ground.

The airport pickup set the tone immediately. Efficient, friendly, and slightly absurd. Instead of a van, our driver pulled up in a Mitsubishi 7 seater SUV that appeared to believe in miracles when it came to luggage. With some creative stacking and a collective agreement not to think too hard about physics, everything fit. Barely. We pushed off into the city, threading through smog and motion for about an hour before the landscape shifted into the French Quarter. Wide boulevards, leafy trees, and old villas hinted at another era entirely, a calm façade compared to the dense chaos we knew waited elsewhere in the city.

Our Airbnb announced itself quietly, tucked behind a long, dark hallway/alley that felt more secret passage than front door. Inside, the place looked exactly like the photos. Cozy, charming, and immediately clear that it would not work for longer than the 3 days we had booked. The living room was genuinely tiny, the stairs narrow and steep with one section that required crouching like we were entering a cave, and the bed was so firm it flirted with being mistaken for plywood. That last part is a slight exaggeration, but not by much. Maxell knew right away that sleep would be a challenge.

Still, the space had a certain charm. A mountain homestay vibe dropped into the middle of Hanoi. We unpacked quickly and headed back out in search of two essentials. Cash and our first bánh mì.

The ATM hunt took longer than expected. One machine failed outright, the second declined politely, and the third finally relented. Victory, complete with no fee and a better exchange rate than anticipated. Thanks, VPBank. Finding bánh mì, on the other hand, took about 2.5 minutes. They are everywhere. The shop we chose had what felt like a billion 5 star Google reviews, which in Vietnam seems to be the universal marker of legitimacy.

Bánh mì is one of those foods that feels like it shouldn’t work as well as it does. A French baguette reborn with Vietnamese fillings. Crackly bread, pork pâté, pickled carrot and daikon, cucumber, onion, herbs, and a swipe of mayo or aioli. Protein varies. Pork, beef, chicken. We leaned pork and beef and added an unreasonable amount of spice because restraint is not our strength. It was excellent.

Fed and happy, we wandered deeper into the French Quarter before making our way to Hồ Hoàn Kiếm. The small lake sits at the heart of Hanoi and carries a legend about a magical sword returned to a giant turtle after a victorious emperor drove out invaders. Today it’s a social magnet. Locals walking laps, stretching, flirting, posing, lingering. As we circled the lake, something unusual stood out. Large groups of young people, mostly women, dressed in ornate traditional outfits, taking glamor shots. Some had professional photographers and lighting rigs. Others worked solo with smart phones. At first we assumed there must be a festival or graduation ceremony. There wasn’t. Later we learned this is simply a thing, especially in winter when northern Vietnam’s weather is at its driest. Once noticed, it was impossible to unsee. Mostly Gen Z women, often alone, capturing themselves against luxury storefronts and landmarks, apparently to be posted on social media in search of likes and clicks. It felt oddly sad to us, though that likely says as much about our own perspective as anything else.

We capped the evening with a little self care. A foot massage for Maxell and pedicures for the ladies at a small, no nonsense shop that happened to have exactly 5 open chairs. The girls slipped into flip flops to protect their freshly painted toes and we wandered off in search of dinner. That came in the form of a streetside stand serving roasted duck over noodles in a broth that looked suspiciously like phở. Maxell called it phở. The woman running the stand firmly said no. The distinction remains unclear, but the result was undeniable. Two massive bowls, split 5 ways. Rich, salty, spicy broth, greens, noodles, and roasted duck. And for Maxell only, it was topped off with a shot of unknown liquor from an unmarked metal thermos, shared from the old dudes at the next table. Full and deeply content, we all threaded back through the alley, climbed the stair cave, and surrendered ourselves to the concrete masquerading as mattresses. A poor night’s sleep was inevitable.

The next morning began with homework. We’ve been a bit lax lately, and it showed. More grumbles, less efficiency. At this point, we’re fairly resigned to the idea that school rhythm will stay wobbly until family departs in about 10 days and we’re back to our core group of 4. Once lessons wrapped, we set out on foot toward the Old Quarter, stopping first at Hanoi Backstreet Café to book a nighttime Vespa street food tour.

The walk itself was a lesson in contrast. The French Quarter felt spacious and orderly, its colonial buildings and wide streets holding onto a sense of calm. Crossing into the Old Quarter was like flipping a switch. Dense, loud, alive. The historic commercial heart of the city, built around a tight crisscrossing mesh of narrow streets once organized by trade, now pulsed with scooters, vendors, shops, and noise layered in every direction.

Hanoi Backstreet Café turned out to be a place we didn’t want to rush. We lingered for a couple of hours, sharing Vietnamese dishes, smoothies for the girls, and beers for us. The vibe was best described as eco warrior chic with a hipster streak. We played blackjack with entirely made up house rules to keep it fun without actual betting. While we were there, we managed to book a nighttime Vespa street food tour for all 7 of us that same evening. Somehow, they had the scooters available. It felt like a small miracle.

Later, we wandered the Old Quarter until it was time to meet up with Shaina’s brother Clark and his husband Kyle. They were staying at The Metropole, one of Hanoi’s most iconic hotels, built in 1901 and long associated with diplomats, writers, and heads of state. Walking into the lobby felt like stepping into a polished time capsule. Seeing Clark and Kyle was a highlight. Lots of hugs, especially from the girls, who were thrilled to see their uncles. We grabbed cocktails at the bar overlooking the hotel’s pool and gardens. Each drink cost more than an entire meal for 4 elsewhere in Vietnam, but Clark and Kyle had AMEX credits to burn. We were grateful beneficiaries.

Just as we finished our drinks, a text came through. Hanoi Backstreet Tours had arrived. Our guide, Huy, introduced himself out front. At a young 23, he spoke excellent English and radiated enthusiasm and knowledge about Vietnamese food, culture, and history. He inspired immediate confidence, which was helpful given what came next.

Putting Arya and Finlee on the backs of scooters driven by strangers and sending them into Hanoi traffic required a leap of faith. The first few minutes were pure adrenaline. It felt impossible that we could survive this. Then the pattern emerged. Nobody moves very fast. Predictability rules. The bigger vehicle wins. Lane lines are suggestions at best. It looks chaotic, but it functions. Accidents seemed rare, or at least low impact.

Our first stop was back at Hanoi Backstreet Café. We laughed and told Huy we’d already eaten there earlier that day. He recovered instantly. Instead of bánh mì, we started with egg coffee or egg hot chocolate. A Hanoi specialty born during a 1940s milk shortage, egg coffee is a whipped mixture of egg yolk, sugar, and condensed milk spooned over hot coffee. The hot chocolate version swaps coffee for cocoa. It’s sweet, rich, and indulgent. Everyone should try it once. Maxell did, and confirmed it is the exact opposite of how he likes his coffee.  The girls, on the other hand, were quite fond of their egg hot cocoas. 

From there, we moved on to bún chả. Grilled pork patties and pork belly served in a light dipping broth with cold rice noodles and piles of herbs. Famously enjoyed by Anthony Bourdain and President Obama, this version had a Michelin mention and absolutely deserved it. Next came phở, deeply aromatic and comforting in every sense, followed by a street bar serving bia hơi and fried tofu with chives. We perched on tiny plastic chairs, sipping barely-beer, eating fried tofu, and listening as Huy talked about Vietnam’s recent history and recent rapid change. Sitting amongst locals, overlooking shimmering city light reflections on the lake, and with an all-too-conspicuous roasted dog in the storefront of the restaurant next door, that stop might have been our favorite of the night, a true microcosm of this crazy city. 

Train Street followed. A narrow residential alley where cafés sit inches from an active train line. It’s technically not allowed, and yet there we were, watched by uniformed military policemen, and watching a full sized train barrel past faces and tables. Bizarre and thrilling in equal measure.

The final stop was bánh mì, because of course it was. We went to Bánh Mì 25, the most famous shop in Hanoi. Legendary, busy, and widely considered among the best. Chicken, pork, and vegetable versions appeared, somehow still appealing despite everything we had already eaten. By the end of the night, none of us were even remotely hungry.

One last scooter ride returned us to the Metropole. We hugged our drivers goodbye, said goodnight to Clark and Kyle, and made our way back to the Airbnb. We collapsed into a food coma and, mercifully, a full night’s sleep.

The following day revolved around food in a different way. We were picked up again at Clark and Kyle’s hotel and driven to the Blue Butterfly Cooking School. We had expected our instructor to be a man named Trường, but instead we met Mei. This bait and switch seems to happen occasionally with Airbnb Experiences. Mei did a solid job overall, though her limited English and heavy accent meant we probably caught about 70 percent of what she said, at best. We rolled with it.

We began with a walk through an outdoor market street selling everything imaginable. Live fish, toads, sea slugs, sea worms, vegetables stacked in impossible abundance, noodles of every variety. Mei bought small amounts from many vendors, explaining freshness, prices, and uses along the way. Back at the kitchen, the class unfolded differently than others we’ve done. Instead of individual stations, we worked together in one shared space, handling prep while Mei did most of the cooking. It was collaborative and communal, even if we still prefer the fully hands on version.

The spread we produced was enormous. Spring rolls, bún chả, phở, papaya salad, fried tofu, lemongrass grilled pork, grilled mushrooms, and more. Sitting down to eat everything together was the reward, and despite the communication gaps, it was a blast.

Afterward, we returned to the Metropole so the girls could swim in the very fancy pool. We ordered very expensive cocktails and settled in, until reality intervened. When the waiter asked for our room numbers and we couldn’t provide a second one, the manager appeared shortly after. Polite but firm. Finish your drinks, then please leave. Fair enough. The girls had managed less than half an hour in the water, which is exactly what happens when you try to sneak 7 people into a super bougie hotel pool.

Back at the Airbnb, we regrouped and headed out once more, this time stumbling into Puku Cafe near one of Hanoi’s main nightlife and food hubs. It leaned a bit more touristy than planned, but it delivered. Great drinks, surprisingly good food, and a long, laughter-filled game of Phase 10 with everyone around the table. This is the version of travel that sticks. Sitting somewhere comfortable with friends and family, talking, playing games, and letting the city hum around you.

We walked home easily, content and tired, ready to close the chapter on Hanoi.

These days in the city felt like an orientation, a joyful overload of food, movement, reunion, and recalibration. We weren’t testing our limits, but instead we found our flow, and laughed through the missteps. And now, with Hanoi under our belts and Clark and Kyle fully reconnoitered, we’re all packing up and heading to Cat Ba next, trading traffic and alleyways for island air and a slower rhythm.